My Dear America
by SparxFlame
Summary: "A heart for a heart, a soul for a soul..." When a careless mistake leaves America dead, how far is England prepared to go to bring him back? But when the problems begin, one thing becomes clear; trying to cheat death is never a good idea.
1. Prologue: The Fall

**Prologue: The Fall**

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><p>It all happened so quickly, he barely realised what was happening. A stack full of folders in his arms, a mixture of official documents and comics, blocking his view, a stray object lying in just the wrong place at the top of the stairs, and a misplaced step. That was all it took.<p>

He went from walking along at an easy swagger to staggering forward, arms flailing wildly out to the sides in an attempt to keep his balance, papers flying everywhere. There was a second of heart-stopping shock, followed by a moment of relief as he managed to regain his balance in his mad stagger down the corridor – and then another jolt of pure, honest fear as the floor disappeared from under him and his foot hit empty air instead of carpet and he was sent careening down the stairs.

He fell awkwardly, head first, left shoulder hitting a step, rolling forward, legs flying over his head far too fast. He yelped, shoulder throbbing nastily in a way that meant it was sure to bruise magnificently, everything moving too fast for him to process much more than shock and pain.

The next step he hit struck his back, a horizontal line that cut directly across his spine, forcing it to bend unnaturally. There was a moment of discomfort, a flash of white-hot pain, and then nothing. The throbbing in his shoulder disappeared too, and a second later he landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs, back twisted in a nauseatingly wrong fashion.

He had only a split second to register the half-formed, stomach-churning realisation that he couldn't feel his legs, and then his head struck the floor – and that was that. No more worry, no more fear, no more thought. No more life. No more Alfred F. Jones.

And so the United States of America fell.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.<strong>

**A/N: So. Because I am apparently a crazy masochist and don't have _enough_ to do at the moment, I've decided that it's high time I start posting the USUK fanfic I've been working on for a couple of months now. It's not finished, but I am a lazy, lazy child and I'm hoping posting it will motivate me to do some actual writing, rather than endless procrastination. The pairings will be USUK, and some PruCan (for the sake of this fic, stuff like GerIta and SuFin will be taken as canon, and Spamano is vaguely implied). Other than that... there's nothing that would require warnings, really, other than character deaths and liberal amounts of angst. (Also, I know killing a main character off is a somewhat... odd way of starting a story. bear with me. It will make sense, I promise.)**


	2. The Call

**Chapter One: The Call**

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><p>"H-hey, Arthur?" sniffed Matthew down the phone.<br>"Speaking. Who is this?" The voice on the other end sounded distracted, and irritated at being disturbed.  
>"Eh, it's Matthew." There was a blank silence, and Matthew sighed. "Canada? Alfred's brother?" he tried hopefully.<p>

"Oh!" Recognition finally filled Arthur's voice. "Sorry, sorry, the line's not very good. Your voice is rather distorted." The lie was obvious, but Matthew was too used to being forgotten to bother objecting. "So, any particular reason for this call, or is it a social one?"  
>Matthew glanced again at the limp form sprawled on the floor, and tried to stop his voice from shaking. "I… I was wondering if you could come over, eh?" he said softly, twirling the phone cord anxiously between his fingers. "I... I'm staying at Alfred's place while the meeting's happening..."<p>

Arthur sighed, his breath a rush of static over the phone. "I'm rather busy at the moment, Matthew. I've got yesterday's notes to review, my boss breathing down my neck, the presentation for tomorrow to prepare, and Scotland's being a pain in the _arse_… I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow, anyway."  
>"A-arthur," said Matthew quickly, before he could hang up, "Eh, I- I <em>really<em> think you should…"

There must have been something in his voice that had set off alarm bells in the other nation's head because, when he spoke this time, there was quiet, serious concern in his voice. "Matthew? Has something happened? Are you okay?"  
>"It's- it's Alfred, h-he…" Matthew couldn't bring himself to say the word, and concentrated instead on crushing the sobs rising up in his throat.<p>

"Alfred?" Alarm filled Arthur's voice; Matthew could almost see him sit up straighter, eyes glittering with worry, overly-large eyebrows lowered in a nervous frown. "Is he ill again? Has there been another- another attack? Bloody hell, I _warned_ him about stepping his security up, I told him they'd-"

"No, n-no, it's not that, i-it's… h-he… can you j-just _please_ come over, eh?" whispered Matthew wretchedly down the phone. "Please?"  
>Arthur sighed again. "…Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can."<br>"Thank you," mumbled Matthew, clutching the phone tighter. "_Thank you._"  
>"And Matthew? Said Arthur quietly. "It's going to be okay. I promise." He hung up.<p>

Matthew stared at the phone, swallowing a slightly hysterical giggle. _It's going to be okay, eh? How on earth is any of this going to be okay ever again?_ He put the phone down on a side table very slowly, staring blankly at the wall. Then he turned, walking over to his brother's body and sitting down heavily next to it, legs nearly giving out on him. He picked up one pale, lifeless hand in both of his own, trying to rub some warmth into it, as if that simple action might be enough to bring Alfred back. As if it would make his blue eyes open again, bring back that enthusiastic grin to his lips.

And then, only then – clutching his brother's hand and bending over his unmoving chest – did the tears come, burning at the corner of his eyes and spilling over, clinging in glittering droplets to his eyelashes and streaming down his cheeks in silvery trails. Hunched over his brother's dead body, Matthew sobbed into the cold air of an empty, uncaring house.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.<strong>

**A/N: Chapter number one! I know it's sort of short, but the chapters will vary in length because the natural breaks in the story come at sort of weird times. Also, more interesting stuff will happen in the next chapter, I promise! (Although Matthew asks me to inform you that him having a mental breakdown definitely constitutes as interesting and if you disagree you're heartless and cold. =.= Bossy character.)**


	3. The Spell

**Chapter One: The Call**

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><p>Arthur arrived at Alfred's house twenty frantic minutes later. Racing up the drive, he hammered on the door, yelling, "Matthew!" and trying to disguise the desperation in his voice. He waited impatiently, shifting from foot to foot, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket and trying (unsuccessfully) to smooth his hair down.<p>

About half a minute later, the door was pulled open slowly to reveal a red-eyed Matthew. For once, it didn't look like he was trying to make himself look as small as possible; he looked as if he actually _was_ smaller, a puppet with its strings cut. He seemed to only half notice Arthur, smiling emptily and motioning for him to come in.

As soon as the door shut behind him, the fear that had already been coiling in his stomach solidified into a leaden sense of dread. It was a deep-seated, instinctual thing that he couldn't have explained for the life of him – it was just a sense of complete and utter _wrongness_. He swallowed hard, forcing himself not to start panicking without any justification. "Matthew…?" he said slowly, levelling his nervous gaze on the other nation. "Are you going to tell me what's going on yet?"

Matthew shook his head, still not meeting Arthur's gaze. "This way," he mumbled, setting off down the hall at a skittish pace, fingers fiddling with the hem of his hoodie anxiously.

The leaden feeling intensified as he followed Matthew until, as they arrived at a bend in the hall and Matthew stopped, blocking his way, he felt like he was going to throw up. Dread was pricking along the nape of his neck, and he didn't ignore his instincts – not when they were as strong as these. But for once, he hoped his intuition was a long, _long_way off.

"Umm… I…" started Matthew, feeling he should warn Arthur about what was behind the door, but the words stuck in his throat again, and a glance at the other's ashen face made him think Arthur already knew, or at least suspected. He gave up, shoulders slumping in defeat, and stepped to the side with a sigh.

Arthur rounded the corner, and stopped dead. He stared at the lifeless body for a second in horrified disbelief. And then his eyes snapped shut, hand flying to his mouth, entire body hunching over as if someone had driven a fist into his stomach. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, let it out, dropped his hand back to his side and opened his eyes, straightening up slightly. He stared at Alfred for a moment more and then, in a perfectly calm and even voice, said, "Bloody fucking _hell_."

Matthew giggled, slightly hysterically. "Yeah. Pretty much, eh."  
>"Wha… what <em>happened<em>?" asked Arthur quietly, walking hesitantly towards the body and dropping to his knees next to it. As Matthew had, he picked up the cold hand and cradled it with his, running his thumbs over the palm and staring, unseeingly, at the limp fingers.

"I d-don't know." Matthew had refused to advance very far around the corner, unwilling to be any closer to the body than he had to be, and was staring very pointedly at the ceiling. He didn't want a repeat of his previous breakdown, and he could feel the tears rising up again. "I j-just walked down the hall and, and… There wasn't any n-noise, any… screaming, or anything. Just some thudding, earlier, but I thought…" He shrugged, helplessly, voice wavering. "I m-mean, it's _Alfred_! The noise could have been anything, I didn't know, didn't realise-"

He looked down from studying the light fitting to realise that Arthur was looking at him sympathetically. "I think," he said gently, "that you could do with a cup of tea. As could I, for that matter." He began to stand, and then glanced back at Alfred's body.

Matthew, now desperate to get away from the hall, from Arthur, to just find somewhere to quietly break down, shook his head violently. "N-no! Uh, I mean, no, it's fine, eh, I'll go and g-get some. D-don't worry, eh!" He disappeared round the corner almost immediately, leaving only a relieved sigh behind him.

Arthur shook his head, pity stirring in his stomach for the young nation – he'd had a horrible shock, and was about to have an even greater one – and turned back to look at Alfred again. His eyes had been closed and his broken glasses removed and folded up by his head, both presumably done by Matthew. His blonde hair was spread out around his face like a halo, the usually gravity-defying curl that was Nantucket lying limply across his forehead. Arthur sighed, brushing it off and carding his fingers through the soft hair absent-mindedly.

"Oh, my dear," he murmured, brushing a gentle thumb across the cold cheek. "What mess have you got yourself into this time, hmm?" He smiled sadly down at the closed eyes. "And I suppose it's up to me to fix it again. You know, you may have grown, but you never did grow up…"

He sighed again, reaching into his jacket and pulling a Swiss army knife out of the inside pocket. "You're going to hate me for this, I'm sure," she said, flicking through the segments until he found the knife. "But that's nothing new, and I've always been selfish, haven't I? So at least you shouldn't be surprised."

He hesitated, stopping his stroking of Alfred's hair, the hand holding the knife wavering in indecision. And then his eyes closed and he murmured something under his breath that could have been, "Lord forgive me." The knife descended.

It slashed across his palm, leaving a deep red gash that quickly began to bleed crimson. He stared at the bloody line, not really believing that it was all the preparation the spell required. Then e lowered it to Alfred's chest, directly over his heart, and dredged his memory for the words of the chant.

Most magic required preparation, runes, pentagrams, potions, candles and long, complicated incantations. It seemed that this, the most powerful of spells, required only blood and a few words – although he supposed the price to be paid was enough to scare most people off. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes again, and began to chant.

_"A heart for a heart,  
>A soul for a soul.<br>A life for a life,  
>This is my goal."<em>

He pulled his hand from Alfred's chest, wincing as the fibres of his shirt caught the edges of the cut. He reopened it with the knife, this time holding it over Alfred's mouth. He squeezed his hand into a fist until fat drops of blood fell on and between his lips, painting them crimson.

_"Take me as payment,  
>With blood am I bound.<br>Return what was lost,  
>And make it now found."<em>

The chant ended and he stared down at the still motion-less body, eyes wide, breath shaking in his chest, heart hammering. Watching.

_Waiting_.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.<strong>

**A/N: Chapter number one! I know it's sort of short, but the chapters will vary in length because the natural breaks in the story come at sort of weird times. Also, more interesting stuff will happen in the next chapter, I promise! (Although Matthew asks me to inform you that him having a mental breakdown definitely constitutes as interesting and if you disagree you're heartless and cold. =.= Bossy character.)**


	4. The Price

**Chapter Two: The Price**

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><p>Nothing happened.<p>

The breath rushed out of him in a broken sob, emerald eyes blinking too fast in an attempt to hold back the tears. "I'm sorry," he breathed, bending to press a kiss to Alfred's warm forehead. "I tried, I tried, _I tried_. I'm so sorry."

He sat up abruptly, brows creasing into a frown. _Warm_? He peered more closely, and saw the faint flush of colour that graced Alfred's cheeks. His eyelid fluttered and he slowly licked the last of the blood off his lips, tongue lingering uncertainly over the scarlet droplets.

And then, suddenly, he shot upright, coughing and spluttering, blinking and cross-eyed in a disgusted attempt to look at his own lips. "Ewww! That's just gross, man." He looked around, still blinking wildly, and seemed to notice Arthur for the first time. "Iggy, you've bled all over me! Not good, dude, not good!" He paused, wiping his mouth, and his eyes focused on Arthur as he looked at him, _properly_ this time. "Arthur? Why- why're you crying?"

"I'm not!" he growled irritably, swiping at the glittering tears that lingered on his cheeks. "Git. That's some way to repay the person that's just saved your life, you moron!"  
>"My…" Alfred gawped at him. "Whaaa?"<br>"You fell down the stairs and broke- _nearly_ broke your neck," said Arthur stiffly, finally regaining some of his composure and managing to catch his slip-of-the-tongue just in time. "You stopped breathing – gave your poor brother a right shock, I can tell you. I… I… gave you CPR. That's where the blood must have come from. I think I cut my hand or- or something."

He hated the feel of the lies as they slid off his tongue so readily, so easily – _when did I get so good at this, at sitting here, looking him in the eye and _lying? – but he knew it was necessary. The fuss that would result, should anyone learn the truth, would be more than he could bear. He wanted peace, and he knew that that, too, was selfish, but he didn't care.

A second later, he was enveloped in a bone-crushingly enthusiastic hug, and a fierce, "thank you," was whispered in his ear. Before he had the chance to overcome his shock and hug him back, to wrap his arms around Alfred and never,_ever_ let go, to bury his face in Alfred's warm neck and whisper those damning words against his skin, Alfred had leant back, eyes wide, an almost comical look of disgust on his face.

"What now?" sighed Arthur exasperatedly, one eyebrow raised. _For God's sake, the boy's only been alive two minutes and I'm already remembering why I usually wish he was dead._  
>"Wait… CPR? So you, like… <em>kissed <em>me?" He shook his head frantically, sticking his tongue out and scrubbing at it frantically with his fingers. "Ewww, Brit germs, _Brit germs_! I'm infected! First I'll start liking scones and then my eyebrows'll go all fluffy 'n-"

"Shut _up_, you git!" yelped Arthur, trying not to think about kissing Alfred and failing to suppress the heat spreading across his cheekbones. "CPR isn't kissing, you utter twat. And there most _certainly_ aren't any tongues involved."

Alfred stopped his scrabbling and cocked his head on one side, tongue still sticking out and hindering his speech. "Plwomith?"  
>"Promise," said Arthur with a sigh, closing his eyes briefly and pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off the oncoming headache he could feel building, born from a combination of magical overexertion and being in the presence of Alfred F. Jones for more than five seconds.<p>

Alfred retracted his tongue with a thoughtful expression. "Y'know," he said slowly, not looking at Arthur, expression unusually serious and a hint of pink along his cheekbones, "I actually wouldn't have min-"

"_Maple_!"

The smash of breaking china and the clatter of plastic accompanied the cry. Both Arthur and Alfred whipped around to see Mattie in the middle of the hallway, white-faced and trembling, standing in a pile of china fragments and a spreading pool of tea. A plastic tray lay at his feet, abandoned and forgotten. "W-wh- Alfr- Alfred?" he stuttered, voice barely above a choked whisper. "Eh, w-what…?"

"Hey Mattie!" Alfred gave a small wave and grinned sheepishly from his place on the floor. Arthur sighed, standing up and moving to help pick up the mess – before recoiling at the sudden and uncharacteristically ferocious glare that Matthew sent his way.

"W-what've you d-done, eh?" he gasped, staring at Arthur, his expression hovering somewhere between confusion and outright terror.

"Woah, woah, bro, calm-" soothed Alfred, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace, still grinning.  
>"No! I won't, eh! You- you were- he was <em>dead<em>, it's not-" He broke off, mouth working but no words coming out, only panicked, gasping breaths. His eyes were wide and gazing imploringly at Arthur, begging him to explain.

"He wasn't dead, he was _nearly_ dead," lied Arthur smoothly, heart twisting in his chest at the look Matthew was giving him, at having to lie about something so big to his son's face.  
>"Yeah, that's right!" chipped in Alfred. "He gave me CPR. Look, Mattie, I'm fine! Honestly. "He spread his arms, apparently in a display of just how fine he was. "See? Fine. I'm real tough, s'gonna take more than a couple of stairs to dent me!" Mistaking Matthew's confused – and now slightly suspicious – expression for a face of disgust, he added, "Yeah, I know. It's like he <em>kissed<em> me. Blech."

Matthew gave Arthur a look that was one part anger and three parts pleading, one that clearly said, _what game are you playing here?_, and beckoned him over to help pick up the pieces of china. As they both bent to right the tray, Matthew whispered, "What _happened_?"  
>"I told you, CPR," hissed Arthur back, carefully piling the jagged-edged white chips on the tray. "You do know this stain is never going to come out? Alfred will have to replace the entire carpet."<p>

Matthew forged ahead valiantly in the face of the attempted topic change. "But 'e was _dead,_ eh!" he objected, accent slipping in his agitation. "He 'ad been dead for at _least_ half an 'our, 'e-"  
>"He wasn't dead," said Arthur firmly. "There was a pulse. Faint, but there." After a moment's pause, he added, "Damned close to dead, though."<p>

"_Mais, papa!_" persisted Matthew, making one last, useless attempt to assert himself. "I checked! I checked 'is breathing and 'is pulse _plus de_ _six fois_, _et il n'__était pas l__à_! 'E was _dead_."  
>"Well, we all make mistakes," murmured Arthur pensively, seemingly more to himself than his worried son. "And Matthew? Please stop speaking that abominable language. You <em>know<em> I don't understand a word of it." Then he picked up the tray, now piled with all the pieces, and stood up, effectively ending the conversation.

_Liar_, thought Matthew, inwardly glaring, outwardly keeping the same, neutrally passive expression he never seemed to be able to change fixed firmly on his face. _You understand every word, I've seen the looks you give Papa when he insults you in it_. He stood up, looking awkwardly at the floor as the silence lengthened and Arthur stared off into the middle distance; he looked almost like he was waiting for something. Alfred regarded them both with mixture of curiosity – he'd been unable to hear what they were saying, but it was obvious they'd been saying _something_ – and amusement.

The moment was eventually broken by Alfred, who's gaze suddenly turned from pensive to horrified, eyes widening. "What the _fuck_ is that?" he yelped, pointing to a spot behind the silently squabbling nations.

Both Arthur and Matthew whirled around, eyes wide, Arthur dropping the tray of china shards and Matthew raising his hands into something that could have approximated a fighting stance. Anything that could alarm America was bad news.

"…Um, there's, eh, nothing there, Alfred," said Matthew after a few awkward seconds of them all staring at empty air.

Or, at least, empty air for him. For Arthur and Alfred, it was filled by a girl- no, a woman- no, a female of somewhat indeterminate age. She stood perfectly still, blue-green eyes unblinking. Her floor-length green dress rippled slightly in the same, non-existent breeze that pushed long strands of white hair into gentle, swirling patterns. She was barefoot, skin a mid-toned sort of brown, just a shade darker than the colour gained by spending days on end in the sun. Despite her statue-like, imposing demeanour, there was something soft about her, a certain gentleness to the slight creases around her mouth and eyes.

"Who… who are you?" whispered Alfred softly, eyes wide, pushing himself to his feet but apparently not daring to try and move closer to her.

She gave him no response, eyes still not focused on anything particular, and Matthew's look of agitation increased. "Alfred… Al, there's- that's empty air you're talking to."  
>"Can't you see her?" demanded Alfred, not turning his head to look at his brother. "There's a- a goddamnned <em>woman<em>standing in the middle of our hall, and- and- how the _hell_ did she get in? _Who are you_?" he demanded, more angrily this time, and took a half-step forward.

"Who is the payment?"

Alfred froze. "W-what?"  
>Her voice was light, gentle, even as she repeated the question. "Who is the payment?"<p>

Arthur stared at the pair of them, mouth dry, heart running at a hundred and sixty miles an hour, so loud that surely Alfred would hear, would turn and see the look of terrified guilt on his face and demand an answer, an explanation Arthur wasn't ready or able to give. But the other nation didn't so much as glance at him, even when he stepped forward in a quiet offering, and the woman's gaze focused on him.

"No," she murmured, eyes flicking up and down the length of him, finally coming to rest on his chest. "You are not ready, little one. I will not take those who have unfinished business. And _you_… you are still but half of a whole."

Her voice was so low Arthur doubted that Alfred could hear her. She took two steps forward, bringing her to stand directly in front of him, and gently rested one hand over his heart. "Come back when he knows. I will accept you then." She paused, and bent in closer, ignoring the fact that Arthur was very determinedly staring at a spot over her shoulder. "Be strong, my child."

And with that she stepped back, a small smile on her face, and turned to walk around the corner of the corridor.

Alfred, who had been looking wide-eyed at Arthur since the woman had approached him, finally managed to regain his senses, and sprinted around the corridor after her, returning after half a minute of echoing footsteps with wide eyes. "She's gone!" he said, almost reverently. "Like, completely and utterly just _gone_, dude! Vanished! Like a ghost or something…" He winced slightly at that thought.

"G-ghosts don't _exist,_ eh!" Matthew marched up to his brother, alarm written across his face, and waved a hand in front of Alfred's eyes in a display of surprisingly aggressive irritation. "Alfred, there was _no one there_."  
>"But- but- Arthur saw her! Didn't you, Arthur? She talked to you and everything, and-" The look of excited hope on the younger nation's face died as Arthur shook his head slowly.<br>"Listen to your brother, Alfred, and stop being ridiculous," said Arthur, praying to god that they didn't hear the hoarse, dizzy quality his voice had suddenly taken on.

Alfred scowled. "She talked to you! And touched you! You _must_ have seen her, don't even bother denying-"  
>"I <em>said<em>, I saw nothing," he snapped, voice sharper and more angry than he'd intended, and then let out a shaky breath at the look of hurt confusion on Alfred's face. "Look, you've been through considerable trauma today, it's no wonder your mind's a bit stressed. I'm- sure it's nothing a cup of tea and a good night's sleep won't cure." He forced a shaky smile onto his face. "Now, if you're both fine…"

"_Je suis certainement _pas_ bien_," muttered Matthew under his breath, and Arthur's eyes darted in his direction, and then away again with an annoyed frown. Matthew felt a sudden, uncharacteristic surge of happiness at causing his father annoyance.

"Well, then," said Arthur, determinedly ignoring Matthew's French and Alfred's scowl, and concentrating on not letting his legs do what they wanted – which was buckle underneath him. "In that case, I have rather a lot of work to attend to. I'll see you both at the world meeting tomorrow? Good. In that case, I bid you farewell."

He would like to think he turned and walked out of the house in a slow and dignified manner. As it was, he exited at a pace only just slow enough not to be called a jog, fumbled with his car keys, and almost collapsed into the driver's seat, finally allowing his trembling knees to give way.

He spent five, long minutes just sitting there on Alfred's driveway, head tilted back against the headrest and taking slow, even breaths, thoughts rushing around inside his head like hornets – __what just happened, how could America have seen her, why am I still alive, what did she mean, half of a whole, what am I supposed to do, oh god I can't remember how to breathe, I don't understand__. It was only when he saw movement in the house (and realised that Matthew was probably coming out to ask him why he wasn't moving, and if he needed help) that he found the energy and self control to shut the door, shove the keys into the ignition and hit the accelerator.

It was proof of how shaken he was that he forgot to fasten his seatbelt.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.<strong>

**Ooh la la, the plot thickens! I think I actually feel most sorry for Matthew in this chapter - Arthur knows what's going on, Alfred doesn't think anything _that_ odd has gone on, and poor Mattie is left wondering if he's going insane. Awww. *hugs him* And if anyone manages to guess who the woman is, I will be very, _very_ impressed. Or maybe it's obvious and I only_think_ I'm being clever. Either way, I'd be interested to hear your guesses.**

**_**Translations:**_  
><strong>...plus de six fois, et il n'était pas là!** - ...more than six times, and it wasn't there!  
><strong>Je suis certainement _pas_ bien** - I am certainly _not_ fine.  
><strong>(I do try to avoid using gratuitously random amounts of foreign languages, but there are some times when it just doesn't have the same feel otherwise. I'll try to keep the phrases short and will offer translations for everything other than basic stuff like 'merci'. If I get anything wrong, feel free to correct me!)


	5. The Socialising

**Sorry about the delay, guys, but I've had some... issues with this fic. The biggest being that the document I had all the writing and planning on has become irretreivably corrupted. I've got about another four chapters up on dA, which I'll post here, but after that there may not be any more for a while. I'm sorry, but, sadly, shit happens. Hopefully it'll get completed at some point, I just... don't know when. Thanks for bearing with me and supporting me this far. You guys are the best!**

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><p><em>It's pretty cool<em>, thought America, looking around the room. _I mean, who else has a _skyscraper_ for their meeting place, huh?_

The nations were currently gathered in the World Meeting place, which this time around had been hosted by America and was, indeed, in a skyscraper. The tower offered a magnificent view of the city skyline, the sun glinting off the other buildings and the people passing below looking like little more than insects.

They had an entire floor of one of the huge glass-and-metal constructions for their use, and the rest of the building had been cleared for security reasons for the duration of the day. Despite that, and the many other security measures that had been taken, being in the skyscraper made America nervous. Not that he'd show it or tell anyone, of course – he was the hero, and the hero was never worried, and besides, he wanted everyone to be jealous of how awesome he was for having such a cool building. He just didn't have good memories of the last time he'd spent any length of time in a tower.

To distract himself, he looked around the room. Most of the nations were already there – a few had decided that the pre-meeting socialisation period was beneath them, or had been delayed in traffic, but despite that the room was already crowded with familiar faces.

The Baltics were huddled together in one corner, occasionally speaking quietly to each other in low voices, their eyes darting around the room. To one side of them stood a brooding Natalia, looking like she'd rather be dead than in the room, and to the other stood Ukraine and Canada. His brother was talking to her quickly and earnestly, a slightly nervous smile on his face. Cuba was sneaking up behind him.

France and England stood nearby, talking. England was scowling at France, but the discussion had yet to erupt into a cat fight, which was a small miracle. Just in front of them, Japan was saying something to Germany, a serious look on his face, and Germany was trying to concentrate – a task not made easy by North Italy hanging off his arm and whining something in his ear.

Spain stood off to one side, grinning and pinching a scowling South Italy's cheek, Mexico at his side, chatting in rapid Spanish. Next to them, China and Taiwan were arguing, Hong Kong hovering around awkwardly. Sweden stood, one arm flung around an uncomfortable looking Finland, mumbling to Denmark. Thailand and Seychelles were giggling, glancing at various nations around the room. Holland was smoking something again, the smoke rising in lazy coils to spread across the ceiling, staring off into space.

All around the room, languages and faces blurred together as the nations grouped and re-grouped, the quiet pleasantries and seemingly random movements all part of the intricate, winding dance of politics they played. Even though it was possible for nations to form friendships on a personal level, rather than because of the feelings of their people, they were still delicate things, prone to fall apart at any moment.

It took America several sweeps of the room to realise what felt wrong – there was someone missing. A certain tall, long-coated individual who wore a scarf and should be here because he never missed an opportunity to annoy America. Alfred blinked, scanning the room again for a flash of violent eyes or the glint of a pipe, and-

"_Privyet, tavorishch_."

A hand descended on his shoulder and America yelped, jumping forward and whirling around to glare at the nation behind him. "Jeez, Russia, what the hell was that for you commie bast-"

But Russia didn't appear to have heard him. The minute his fingers had brushed America's skin, just the tiniest of touches on the side of his neck, he had frozen. Eyes wide, expression as close to surprise as it could get without dropping that childish smile, he scrutinised America. Wondering. "_Nizhit_," he said softly, realisation and wonder colouring his tone.

"-and that's totally _not cool_, dude, haven't you ever heard of personal space and all- _whaaaat_? What did you call me?" squawked America angrily, pink spots appearing over his cheekbones – though whether they were from anger or embarrassment at his non-comprehension was anyone's guess.

"How did you did you _do_ it?" whispered Russia, voice almost awed, one hand stretching out to rest gently against America's cheek.  
>"Get the <em>fuck<em> off me, commie!" America slapped his arm away and took a step back, eyes wide. A hesitant look of fear lurked under the bright indignation there, just the slightest of confused uncertainties. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

There was a gradual hush as the roomful of nations became aware of the argument going on. Although conflicts between America and Russia weren't exactly rare, they needed to be stopped in their infant stages – before the cleaning staff started demanding extra pay as recompense for spending hours on their knees scrubbing the blood out of the carpet.

Russia blinked, looking at America silently for a moment with his head on one side, and then began to chuckle. "You _really_ do not know? Kolkolkolkol..."  
>America who had, for once, stayed silent whilst Russia spoke, frowned, biting his lip unconsciously. "Know what?" he said before he could stop himself, more worry in his tone that was safe when around Russia. Any visible – or audible – weaknesses would be thoroughly and mercilessly exploited.<p>

"Know what is wrong with you!" The 'of _course_, you idiot' was missing, but so heavily implied even America couldn't miss it. Russia chuckled again, shaking his head, and turned to walk towards the door. He got halfway across the room, all eyes darting between him and America, the whole place silent, before he was stopped by a voice that shook with a strange combination of anger, fear and humiliation. "An' _what_, exactly," growled America into the silence, "is wrong with me?"

Russia paused, but did not turn around. "That you are alive, _da_?"

The other nations watched him exit the room, their eyes darting between him and the frozen America. This wasn't a normal fight – it hadn't ended with shouting and ridiculous threats, hadn't ended with the two nations being physically dragged away from each other.

England watched Russia walk away, eyes wide and mouth open. _He can't know. He just _can't._ He must have been winding America up, that's all_. He took a deep breath, closed his mouth and forced himself to relax slightly – but he still stared at the door the large, quietly smiling nation had left through.

"And what does 'e zink 'e means by zat, hmm?" a familiar, unusually pensive voice murmured by England's ear. "Bah, 'zat 'e is alive'. It is obvious to anyone with 'alf a brain that _cher Am__é__rique_ is alive, and zere is nozing wrong with zat!"

"It doesn't mean anything, you stupid frog!" snapped England, feeling the tips of his ears heat up and his stomach do flips. "He only said it to annoy America, and besides, it's not like Russia ever makes any sense anyway, he's completely insane. He was probably trying to mess with all our head." He hesitated, shook some of the panic from his voice, injected as much dry, disgusted condescension into his voice as he could, and added, "Obviously."

There was a moment's pause, filled only with the sounds of the various conversations that were slowly starting again around the room. "Honhonhon, _Angletterre_," chuckled France, snaking one hand slowly and stealthily around England's waist and pulling the smaller nation back towards him ever so slightly. "But we are feeling defensive, _non_?"

"And what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" demanded England, shoving his arm away and pulling out of his embrace, whirling around and finding himself nose to nose with frankly alarming (and more than a little suggestive) smile.

"Well, considering zat you _et Am__é__rique _'ave your little 'special relationship', I was merely wondering if you were, ah... _protecting your investment_." He raised one elegant eyebrow, his smirk widening.

England responded to _that_ in the only sensible manner possible – he punched France.

By the time the ensuing ruckus was broken up – Spain untangling France's hands from England's hair and wrists and Germany prying England's fingers off of France's throat, Prussia aiding proceedings by standing on the sidelines and gleefully shouting, "Fight! Fight!" – normal conversation had resumed. France and England were at each other's throats far too much to interest anyone but those who wished to laugh at them. Unlike America and Russia, they never caused enough damage to their surroundings to make it essential to pull them apart.

England shook himself free of Germany's grip, gave France a haughty look and the two-fingered salute (which invited a mockingly blown kiss in return) and stalked off to talk to Japan. It was only later – when Russia returned, accompanied by a trembling Latvia whom no one had even seen leave, and they decided to get on with the actual business of holding a meeting – that they realised America had disappeared.

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><p><strong>Reviews are loves and cookies!<strong>


	6. The Eagle

**Here, have a chapter of confused and grumpy England adorableness. :) Also, please ignore my fail attempts at using American spelling and stuff for Alfred's speech. =.=**

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><p>He had searched the whole building. <em>The whole bloody building, <em>thought Arthur, _and no sign of the git! Honestly, when I get my hands on him_... He spent a few happy moments entertaining thoughts of strangling the currently-absent America, and then opened another door with a push that was rather more savage than strictly necessary.

And there, framed by another set of double doors leading to a balcony, stood Alfred. He was leaning over the railings, back to Arthur, lit with a washed-out yellow under the bright, mid-morning sun.

"_There_ you are, you wanker, I've been looking for half a bloody hour for-" Arthur froze, halfway across the room, as a pair of yellow, cold eyes focused on him. The bald eagle perched on Alfred's arm swivelled its head to get a better look at him, gaze calculated and predatory. Arthur got the uncomfortable feeling it was _assessing_ him. When, after a second, the creature looked away and returned to looking curiously at Alfred, he let out a small breath of relief.

Alfred chuckled, still not turning around. "You can come closer, Iggy, he won't bite." He raised one hand and absently ran a curled finger down the back of the eagle's head, smoothing the slightly ruffled feathers.

Arthur swallowed, and stepped forward, this time not quite flinching when the bird looked at him again. "Are you _quite_ sure about that?" he asked the back of Alfred's head, one eyebrow raised.  
>"Yeah, yeah. He's never bitten me before!" Arthur could practically see Alfred's grin.<br>"And what a big comfort that is," he mumbled snidely, taking another step forward, hesitantly. "He's not _my_ national animal, you git."

The bird cried out at the movement, a sharp, unexpected noise that startled Alfred as well as Arthur. Arthur froze again, whilst Alfred turned sideways so he could look at the nervous nation hesitating in the middle of the room. He frowned at Arthur, who shrugged back at him in confusion (eyes still on the eagle), and then looked back at the creature perched on his arm. "Hey!" he said to it, tone mildly reprimanding, but also lightly amused. "Play nice, yeah? He's a friend." He paused, looking over at Arthur and grinning. "Most of the time, anyway."

Arthur closed the last few steps between them slowly, but the bird didn't object any further. He stood next to Alfred, watching as the taller nation stroked the bird gently, eyes happy.  
>"He's magnificent," said Arthur softly, smiling slightly despite himself. He knew he should be shouting at Alfred for delaying the meeting and dragging him back down to the conference room by his ear, but couldn't quite find the incentive to break the quiet peace.<p>

Alfred turned to grin at him, almost radiating with happiness; England complimenting anything that was even remotely connected to him was a rare occurrence. "Hey, you can touch him!" he said, and before Arthur could protest he caught the smaller man's fingers in his own and pulled them gently up to smooth over the ruffled feathers of the eagle's neck.

The second Arthur touched the bird, its head whipped round, gold eyes meeting green- and Arthur recoiled. _It knows. Yea gods, it knows, how can it-?_ He could almost hear its thoughts as it stared at him mockingly, hungrily. _Dead man. Prey. Carrion. _And then, with a derisive screech, the bird flared its wings and launched itself into the air, feathers glistening as it wheeled up and away from them, its cries echoing over the bustling city.

Alfred winced, looking at the scratches its claws had left across the sleeve of his beloved bomber jacket. "Well, wouldya look at that," he said thoughtfully, almost to himself. "He ain't never been that rude before." He turned to frown at Arthur, gaze pensive, the clueless smile he usually wore absent from his face. "There's nothing 'bout you that should get him so riled…"

And for a moment, standing there on that balcony in the high summer sun and the entire, glittering city spread out below them, Alfred's impossibly blue eyes locked with his and their fingers still woven together, Arthur nearly broke.

"I…" The word was barely audible over the breeze, little more than an exhaled breath. "I l…"

"Must've been your scary eyebrows" laughed Alfred, nose wrinkling in amusement and mock-disgust, and the moment was gone. "They'd've scared _me _off for sure!" He grinned, poking Arthur's forehead gently with his free hand. "Maybe he thought they were coming to eat him or sommat!"

"G-git!" stuttered Arthur, swatting Alfred's hand away even as he felt the heat rising in his cheeks and realised he was probably going scarlet. "Give me my bloody hand back!" he snapped, scrambling to cover his confusion, and tried to jerk his hand out of the American's. At the last second, though, Alfred grabbed it back in both of his, prying the Englishman's fingers open to peer at his palm.

His expression sobered almost instantly. "Hey, Iggy, what's this?" he said, raising one eyebrow and lowering his hands slightly, so Arthur could see the long, but shallow, ragged-edged cut across his palm that Alfred was looking at.  
>"It's nothing," he said quietly, trying to pull his hand away, but Alfred wouldn't let him. "<em>Honestly<em>," he added, scowling. "It doesn't even hurt. I… cut myself when I was cleaning."

"It doesn't hurt?" Alfred poked the cut and, when Arthur didn't even wince, made a face. "Man, Arthur, that's _weeeeeird_. Dude, you should, like, totally go and get this checked out by a doctor or something. Maybe it's infected or whatever, and then, like, your whole hand would turn green, and it'd spread, and then _bam_! Zombie before you know it."  
>"…Really." Arthur finally managed to reclaim his fingers with a derisive snort of amusement.<p>

"Seriously, bro! I don't wanna have a zombie apocalypse just 'cos you couldn't be bothered your British ass to go to the doctors."  
>Arthur sighed. "I don't think I'm in any danger of turning into a zombie, Alfred. I'm sure it'll heal on its own in a few days." He turned and headed towards the door, before stopping when he realised America wasn't following him. "Come on. The meeting's already been delayed for half a bloody hour because you didn't turn up. I'm dragging you back whether you like it or not, so you may as well come willingly."<br>"Fine, fine, coming," sighed Alfred melodramatically, sloping with exaggerated reluctance across the room and following Arthur out of the door.

"It's arse, by the way," Arthur added as they walked down the corridor, side by side.  
>"Huh?" America frowned at him in confusion.<p>

"It's arse. Not _ass_. Really, your English is _appalling_."  
>"Yeah, well, your American ain't all that good either, <em>old man<em>. It's _ass_."  
>"How dare- It's <em>arse<em>. As in, America is an absolute _arse_."  
>"Nuh-uh! It's <em>ass<em>. As in, England has a _huuuuuuge_ stick up his ass."  
>"You- git!"<br>"Owwww! _Iiiiiggy_!"  
>"…Serves you right."<p>

Arthur hadn't been joking when he had said the cut didn't hurt. In fact, he hadn't felt it since performing the spell that had brought Alfred back to life – his whole hand had gone numb. He didn't just not feel pain, he felt… nothing. Nothing at all.

_So I must have imagined it,_ he thought, as he walked down the corridor with Alfred whining and laughing by his side. _It must have been a trick of the mind. _Because, for a second, before the eagle had flown, he could have sworn he felt the warmth of Alfred's hand in his right the way down to his bones.

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